


about the broken and insane

by purebloodied



Series: hunterXwolf [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Death, Drabble, Hurt, Insanity, Intimacy, M/M, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purebloodied/pseuds/purebloodied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small something I just had to write about Peter Hale, his state of mind and the role Chris Argent plays in all that.</p><p>Slight AU</p><p>It is also the first part of a series (hunterXwolf) of little one shots I plan to write and post eventually - all more or less (or not at all) related to one another but filled with the bits and pieces of the head-canon I have for Peter Hale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	about the broken and insane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AllThingsWeird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllThingsWeird/gifts).



He had tried to fit in. He really had tried and it had seemed to work as long as Derek had had need of him and his help to build and strengthen his pack of bitten betas, as long as his nephew had needed someone older and more experienced in his back; as support, as reassurance, maybe just as a vague reminder of the old days, of their family and of how a functioning pack looked and worked like, maybe it had only been sentiment.

He didn’t know and he didn’t care what the actual reason was. What he did know was that he had done his deed and that thus he was of no-more use to the young Alpha. Now he was just the broken and insane, the useless, the instable, the dangerous, the unpredictable in a pack of young, proud, stable and well cooperating werewolves. He was a risk, a hindrance at best. And he detested the very idea; it was nothing he had ever strived to be.

Yet here he is. Idly sitting in a bar chair in a more shady corner of Beacon Hills, as far away from the pack as possible without leaving the boundaries of their territory. There sits a beer bottle on the bar counter in front of him as his pale blue eyes roam the room. He didn’t fit in here, too. He stuck out and yet he went unnoticed by the other guests at the same time. It was not his world, not the world he grew up in – but on the other hand the world he grew up in was no-more. So where to go? What to do? Peter hadn’t known for a very long time.

At first there had been white hot pain and anger and hate, oh so much hate that had driven him and he had longed for vengeance, had been blinded by it. Then there had been Derek and the pups, running about like headless chicken, only just about to trip and die if it hadn’t been for him. But now there was just nothing. Nothing but his nephew’s sad blue eyes that looked at him like he was waiting for his uncle to return, like he was waiting for Peter to adjust, to go back to be like Derek remembered him from his childhood, to be the person he had been before the fire.

Before the fire, when his wife had enlightened his days with her bright smile and British accent, when his sons had tried to tackle him to the ground, when he had planned mischief with his niece and nephews, when he had cooked for the pack every weekend, when they had roamed their territory together. But then the fire had come and had taken all this away from him, leaving nothing but raw nerves and insanity. 

Peter knows he would never again be the person he had been back in this life he could barely remember, he couldn’t be fixed – although Derek tried and he asked himself when the time would come where the young Alpha would notice, when he would accept and surrender to the fact that Peter Hale was, indeed, broken beyond repair.

 

He lifts his gaze as the bar door opens, the sound of pouring rain mixing with the sounds of the bar for a brief moment before the door falls shut again and Chris Argent stands in the doorway, soaking wet clothes clinging to his body. Peter’s lips curl upwards in what once might’ve been a smile and was more of a shrewd grimace nowadays.

It’s not the first time they meet here but there’s no regularity to it either. They just occasionally stumble into each other whenever they need company, whenever they need each other, whenever everything around them becomes just a little too much – which translates to Peter being here, waiting for the hunter to show nine nights out of ten and the man showing up in one night out of thirty. Peter doesn’t mind.

“Argent.” He says in greeting as the man sits down on his usual place beside the werewolf, a nod the only greeting he receives in return. There is already a beer waiting for Chris – the bartender knew the odd couple by now and was smart enough to never talk to them albeit being a seemingly very chatty person around his other guests. 

They sit like this for a while, shutting out the sound of the loud, drunken people around them, their knees pressing firmly against each other, both of them so obviously desperate for an anchor. Peter tries to remember the first time they had sat here, tries to remember how all this started but he can’t, not when he could hear the man’s unsteady heartbeat so close beside him, not when Chris’ scent surrounds him like that. Tonight there is a tad of desperation mixed into what Peter usually smells on the man and pale blue eyes glance into pale grey ones; Argent was watching him.

“We should go.” Peter’s voice is a little rough. Normally they would sit here for hours, drinking beer until close to dawn, until they decided to go, together. But tonight is different, tonight the Hale didn’t want to wait, he had waited thirty three days, the longest Chris had ever made the wolf wait for the hunter. Wouldn’t he have showed tonight, Peter knows he would have snapped, he would have allowed his wolf to take control, would have run and hunted until the warm blood of a fresh kill would have filled his mouth and run down his throat. He is glad Chris came tonight.

 

It is always the same run-down motel they go to after they leave the bar, the same battered room with those horrible tapestries and curtains, the one with the dripping tap. Peter couldn’t have cared less about any of those details, they are here for another reason and he is more upset about the fact that this place never really smells of them anyways, that it is never really just theirs and theirs alone. He knows on the other hand that Chris would never let a wolf into his bed, the bed he had shared with his late wife and thus the motel room has to suffice. 

Their touches are more desperate and rasher, harsher than usual and Peter revels in their heated need for each other while hard lips brush and move against each other in something that was not really a proper kiss and more biting and licking and stealing the other’s air really. Chris shoves him hard against the closed door the moment it clicks shut and the wolf smiles into their kiss, the hunter’s hands rushing to rip Peter’s expensive button up open, strong fingers finally running over pale skin with needy, uncoordinated touches. The wolf arches into them, soft moan tumbling from his lips as he presses their bodies close, his own hands already pulling the hunter’s shirt off him.

His long fingers run through Chris’ short grey-blonde hair before he grabs it, forcing the man’s head to tilt back until his throat is bared. A pleased growl rumbles low in his chest as he licks along the curve of that beautiful neck before letting go again so they can shove and push and pull at each other until they crash down on the bed, kissing each other feverishly, touching each other with desperate need, fabric ripping and clothes flying off into the darkness of the room.

Peter’s pale eyes are clouded with lust as they watch the man hovering above him, as he takes in Chris’ tousled hair and the deep red flush on his cheeks and chest, his wet lips slightly parted and scent heavy with arousal and barely restrained passion. He lifts both of his hands, framing the other’s face almost gently as he pulls him down for another kiss, his legs falling open to allow the hunter to lie down between them, their straining erections touching, brushing, sliding alongside as Argent’s hips move involuntarily against Peter’s, as they grind into each other. 

The wolf moans and holds his lover-for-only-tonight close, willingly baring his own throat as he feels Chris’ nose nudge against his jawline, exposing himself to the hunter and submitting with a quiet whimper as blunt human teeth sink into his skin, harsh and uncontrolled but not hard enough to draw blood. 

Chris never hurts him and his touches keep the werewolf oddly grounded, show him what is real and what is just in his head and they help him calm his horribly deranged mind. And wasn’t that pure irony? The sole thing in the whole world that is able to make Peter see, that brings him back close to his sanity and makes him feel safe, safe from his surroundings and more importantly himself is Chris Argent out of all people.

It’s odd and wrong and probably just another awful thing caused by his insanity that he acts on without thinking about it but it couldn’t feel better. Peter couldn’t feel better and lighter than in those rare moments when they hide in this room, when they lie with each other and the scent of desperation, sweat, arousal and Chris, of them, fills out everything in the wolf’s conscience. 

He can feel his body shudder and writhe pleasantly under the hunters strong hands, pressing into the touch while quiet moans mix into his panting breath, his own hands busy to touch Chris wherever they could reach, desperate to rub Peter’s scent into his skin, to mark him, to make him his. They are heady and full of impatience as Chris slides lower, entering the wolf with two of his fingers, making him arch off the bed and mutter the hunter’s name.

“I like how you look and say my name when I take you apart.” Chris’ voice his gruff with arousal, his breath unsteady and his pale grey eyes are blown wide as their gazes lock briefly before the hunter leans down to run a tongue over the wolf’s chest. 

“No need to take something apart that is already broken, Chris.” The smile on Peter’s thin lips is wide and mad, a stark contrast to his soft, sad voice and the incredibly vulnerable, open look in his blue eyes. He tries to laugh but the sound quickly morphs into a low, loud, uncontrolled moan as Chris’ only reply to his words is to replace his fingers with his hard cock, entering him in one long trust as a strong, calloused hand grabs his. It’s the moment Peter realizes something. Chris Argent is indeed not taking him apart; he is putting him back together. 

 

When they’re done Peter is too spent and exhausted to move, his body and mind finally at ease as he’s riding out the last blissful moments of his orgasm. Chris usually moves away in an instant, taking a shower that would last at least half an hour but tonight about everything seems to be different. Peter is holding on to the other man too tightly, keeping their bodies close and keeping the other inside him, while the hunter is apparently too unwilling to part just now, too. 

And so they lie there in the darkness of the motel room, skin on skin, occasionally licking and kissing the other’s neck and shoulders and lips, hands running lazily over relaxed muscles. Peter can’t help his instincts as he pushes his nose into the crook of Chris neck, inhaling the heavy scent that means safety and anchorage and belonging. He wonders when the hunter will notice what is happening to them, when he will realize and decide it’s been enough, when he will push the wolf away – away and back into his insanity. 

Peter dreads this moment, the moment Chris will take his leave, dreads to lose the one thing that keeps the last pieces of the mess that is Peter Hale together; that stands beside him and reaches out for him in the darkness that is his mind. He may be broken and insane, gone beyond repair but he is not yet lost. Not yet.

 

It’s some time later, maybe half a year, maybe more, that Chris asks him to meet. Peter immediately knows what he’s about to face, knows their time has run out. He is almost a little sad that they wouldn’t have a last chance to dance their usual dance at the bar; it had been nice, almost a ritual, symptomatic of their relationship and he would miss it.

When the hunter steps into their usual motel room it’s a bright and beautiful day outside, the sun oblivious to the pain of the man and the wolf that stare at each other with contemplating, sad eyes, their shoulders hunched and bent from the weight the both of them had to carry through life. Peter’s heart aches and he can feel his insanity bubbling just beneath the surface of his very existence. He ignores both and gets to his feet, cautiously approaching Chris until they stand abreast, their chests almost touching weren’t their breaths so swallow. 

“Peter…” The hunter is the first to speak, saying the other’s name aloud for the first time since all this began but Peter silences him with a gentle brush of his lips. It’s almost hesitant as his hand comes up to make his fingertips trace the man’s jawline. Never before have they kissed like this. They never had the time or patience or will to be anything but hasty and harsh and brutal in their love making, never before had the wolf even dared to think of being tender and gentle around Chris – it would have made him vulnerable he had thought. Now Peter knows better and steps closer, bringing their bodies flush against each other. 

The man pulls away from the wolf with an almost indignant sound, it lacks conviction. “Don’t.” Chris states harshly and Peter can see his pale grey eyes flicker with emotion, can hear his heart stutter in the lie that hides beneath this one single word. “My daughter…” He starts again and again the wolf’s lips silence him.

 

“I know.” Peter breathes into their kiss, closing his eyes and wrapping his arms around the other’s broad shoulders, pulling him closer as he rests their foreheads against each other.

“She knows. We can’t… Not anymore.” Peter had known what he would hear from the man the moment he had seen his cell phone’s display light up with the hunter’s name earlier today and yet hearing them still struck him like lightning, it made him sway on his feet and he gripped Chris’ shoulders more tightly, desperately looking for support, reaching out for his anchor.

“I know.” The wolf replies once more and he opens his bright blue eyes and looks fondly right into pale grey ones as they stand so incredibly close. He hates how vulnerable and wounded his voice just sounded and he forces a smile onto his pale lips, it’s twisted and too sharp, even for him. “We’d do anything for our children, wouldn’t we Chris, anything to keep them safe and sound and most importantly alive.” His voice sounds understanding but his eyes blaze with madness as he remembers the fire, as he feels his skin peel from his flesh and as he feels his flesh melt from his bones, as he hears them scream – his wife, his sons, his whole family – as he remembers all too vividly how he hadn’t been able to save them. 

He is losing his anchor and with it the last pieces of sanity that remain to him, he knows. Peter’s eyes flutter and he takes a deep breath, licks his dry lips. “I know. I understand. I knew the moment we started this.” The wolf admits and once more he closes his eyes as he leans forward, burying his face in the fabric of the other’s shirt, as he holds on to him. 

He knows he is dangerous and insane, he knows that Chris’ is also aware of it and Peter had known from the very start, from the very first kiss, that the time would come where the hunter would deem him entirely too dangerous to be around, to keep around, to allow himself to get attached to. Actually he had thought it would come way sooner, maybe on the next day of their first night or a week after, but it hadn’t. And for a short while he had wondered, feeling oddly reassured and safe – well, he hadn’t allowed this illusion to last long and had reminded himself of his insanity, of how broken he was and that Chris Argent was and would always be a hunter, first and foremost, and not his therapist or even lover. They were nothing but hunter and wolf, drawn together by destiny and odds.

Peter tilts his head slightly to the side, his eyes half-open as he places the gentlest of kisses onto Chris’ temple, then his cheek, his jawline, the corner of his mouth. “When you know, why do you… keep doing this?” The hunter’s voice is heavy with emotion and the wolf smiles against his lips as he presses them together, running his tongue over them. 

“One last time.” is Peter’s softly spoken reply and Chris gasps quietly into their kiss, gripping Peter tight and pulling him closer against his broad chest, strong hands running over his back.

As they lie with each other for the last time everything is slow and gentle and tender but just as desperate as they are used to, maybe even more. It’s their parting gift to each other, Peter’s last salute to life and sanity before the darkness that he knows will come devours him whole, now that his anchor will no longer be by his side and reach for him in the moments he needs it. 

He doesn’t know if he will welcome it this time, the stillness, the silence, the nothingness that is death but Peter thinks he is safe to assume that he will have long lost his mind when death will finally come for him. He hopes it will be Chris; it would be a stunningly beautiful final chord in the cacophony that his life had been since the fire.

 

In the end his sanity does as well last longer than Peter would have thought. It’s a slow but steady decay of his mind and in his bright moments it pains him to see his nephew watch him crumble and fall apart completely. His bright moments are rare, though. He doesn’t like them as they are always unpleasant and painful and nasty. Peter prefers the delirious moments, those moments where he can be with his wife, play with his sons or kiss Chris, lean against his strong chest and just indulge the warmth and happiness that surrounds him. 

That’s before his humanity slips completely trough his fingers and from his grasp, leaving nothing but raw madness and pools of blood behind.

**Author's Note:**

> So I just couldn't keep myself from musing about Peter... how kind of a man he might have been before the fire, what kind of life he had been living and what it did to him to loose it all... and how he maybe tries to hold on to the parts of his mind that are still intact.  
> And that lead to a lot of feelings I just had to express somehow and it all canalised into /this/...


End file.
